75.‘Let the tyrants pour aroundWith a quick and startling sound,Like the loosening of a sea, _305Troops of armed emblazonry.
76.‘Let the charged artillery driveTill the dead air seems aliveWith the clash of clanging wheels,And the tramp of horses’ heels. _310
77.‘Let the fixed bayonetGleam with sharp desire to wetIts bright point in English bloodLooking keen as one for food.
78.Let the horsemen’s scimitars _315Wheel and flash, like sphereless starsThirsting to eclipse their burningIn a sea of death and mourning.
79.‘Stand ye calm and resolute,Like a forest close and mute, _320With folded arms and looks which areWeapons of unvanquished war,
80.‘And let Panic, who outspeedsThe career of armed steedsPass, a disregarded shade _325Through your phalanx undismayed.
81.‘Let the laws of your own land,Good or ill, between ye standHand to hand, and foot to foot,Arbiters of the dispute, _330
82.‘The old laws of England—theyWhose reverend heads with age are gray,Children of a wiser day;And whose solemn voice must beThine own echo—Liberty! _335
83.‘On those who first should violateSuch sacred heralds in their stateRest the blood that must ensue,And it will not rest on you.
84.‘And if then the tyrants dare _340Let them ride among you there,Slash, and stab, and maim, and hew,—What they like, that let them do.
85.‘With folded arms and steady eyes,And little fear, and less surprise, _345Look upon them as they slayTill their rage has died away.
86.Then they will return with shameTo the place from which they came,And the blood thus shed will speak _350In hot blushes on their cheek.
87.‘Every woman in the landWill point at them as they stand—They will hardly dare to greetTheir acquaintance in the street. _355
88.‘And the bold, true warriorsWho have hugged Danger in warsWill turn to those who would be free,Ashamed of such base company.
89.‘And that slaughter to the Nation _360Shall steam up like inspiration,Eloquent, oracular;A volcano heard afar.
90.‘And these words shall then becomeLike Oppression’s thundered doom _365Ringing through each heart and brain,Heard again—again—again—
91.‘Rise like Lions after slumberIn unvanquishable number—Shake your chains to earth like dew _370Which in sleep had fallen on you—Ye are many—they are few.’
NOTES: _15. Like Eldon Hunt manuscript; Like Lord Eldon Wise manuscript. _15. ermined Hunt manuscript, Wise manuscript edition 1832; ermine editions 1839. _23 shadows]shadow editions 1839 only. _29 or]and Wise manuscript only. _35 And in his grasp Hunt manuscript, edition 1882; In his hand Wise manuscript, Hunt manuscript cancelled, edition 1839. _36 On his]And on his edition 1832 only. _51 the Hunt manuscript, edition 1832; that Wise manuscript. _56 tempestuous]tremendous editions 1839 only. _58 For with pomp]For from… Hunt manuscript, Wise manuscript. _71 God]Law editions 1839 only. _79 rightly Wise manuscript; nightly Hunt manuscript, editions 1832, 1839. _93 Fumbling] Trembling editions 1839 only. _105 a vale Hunt manuscript, Wise manuscript; the vale editions 1832, 1839. _113 as]like editions 1839 only. _116 its Wise manuscript, Hunt manuscript; it editions 1832, 1839. _121 but Wise MS; and Hunt manuscript, editions 1832, 1839. _122 May’s footstep Wise manuscript, Hunt manuscript; the footstep edition 1832; May’s footsteps editions 1839. _132-4 omit Wise manuscript. _146 had cried Hunt manuscript, editions 1832, 1839; cried out Wise manuscript. _155 omit edition 1832 only. _182 of]from Wise manuscript only. _186 wills Hunt manuscript, editions 1832, 1839; will Wise manuscript. _198 their Wise manuscript, Hunt manuscript, editions 1839; the edition 1832. _216 cave Wise manuscript, Hunt manuscript, editions 1839; caves edition 1832, Hunt manuscript cancelled. _220 In Wise manuscript, editions 1832, 1839; To Hunt manuscript.
(Note at stanza 49: The following stanza is found in the Wise manuscript and in editions 1839, but is wanting in the Hunt manuscript and in edition 1832:—
‘Horses, oxen, have a home,When from daily toil they come;Household dogs, when the wind roars,Find a home within warm doors.’)
_233 the Hunt manuscript, editions 1832, 1839; both Wise manuscript. _234 Freemen Wise manuscript, Hunt manuscript, editions 1839; Freedom edition 1832. _235 Dream Wise manuscript, Hunt manuscript, editions 1839; Dreams edition 1832. damn]doom editions 1839 only. _248 Give Hunt manuscript, edition 1832; Given Wise manuscript, Hunt manuscript cancelled, editions 1839. _249 follow]followed editions 1839 only. _250 Or Wise manuscript, Hunt manuscript; Oh editions 1832, 1839. _254 Science, Poetry, Wise manuscript, Hunt manuscript; Science, and Poetry editions 1832, 1839. _257 So Hunt manuscript, edition 1832; Such they curse their Maker not Wise manuscript, editions 1839. _263 and]of edition 1832 only. _274 or]and edition 1832 only.
(Note to end of stanza 67: The following stanza is found (cancelled) at this place in the Wise manuscript:—
‘From the cities where from caves,Like the dead from putrid graves,Troops of starvelings gliding come,Living Tenants of a tomb.’
_282 sows Wise manuscript, Hunt manuscript;sow editions 1832, 1839._297 measured Wise manuscript, Hunt manuscript, edition 1832;ne’er-said editions 1839._322 of unvanquished Wise manuscript;of an unvanquished Hunt manuscript, editions 1832, 1839._346 slay Wise manuscript; Hunt manuscript, editions 1839;stay edition 1832._357 in wars Wise manuscript, Hunt manuscript, edition 1832;in the wars editions 1839.
Though Shelley’s first eager desire to excite his countrymen to resist openly the oppressions existent during ‘the good old times’ had faded with early youth, still his warmest sympathies were for the people. He was a republican, and loved a democracy. He looked on all human beings as inheriting an equal right to possess the dearest privileges of our nature; the necessaries of life when fairly earned by labour, and intellectual instruction. His hatred of any despotism that looked upon the people as not to be consulted, or protected from want and ignorance, was intense. He was residing near Leghorn, at Villa Valsovano, writing “The Cenci”, when the news of the Manchester Massacre reached us; it roused in him violent emotions of indignation and compassion. The great truth that the many, if accordant and resolute, could control the few, as was shown some years after, made him long to teach his injured countrymen how to resist. Inspired by these feelings, he wrote the “Mask of Anarchy”, which he sent to his friend Leigh Hunt, to be inserted in the Examiner, of which he was then the Editor.
‘I did not insert it,’ Leigh Hunt writes in his valuable and interesting preface to this poem, when he printed it in 1832, ‘because I thought that the public at large had not become sufficiently discerning to do justice to the sincerity and kind-heartedness of the spirit that walked in this flaming robe of verse.’ Days of outrage have passed away, and with them the exasperation that would cause such an appeal to the many to be injurious. Without being aware of them, they at one time acted on his suggestions, and gained the day. But they rose when human life was respected by the Minister in power; such was not the case during the Administration which excited Shelley’s abhorrence.
The poem was written for the people, and is therefore in a more popular tone than usual: portions strike as abrupt and unpolished, but many stanzas are all his own. I heard him repeat, and admired, those beginning
‘My Father Time is old and gray,’
before I knew to what poem they were to belong. But the most touching passage is that which describes the blessed effects of liberty; it might make a patriot of any man whose heart was not wholly closed against his humbler fellow-creatures.
***
Is it a party in a parlour,Crammed just as they on earth were crammed,Some sipping punch—some sipping tea;But, as you by their faces see,All silent, and all—damned!“Peter Bell”, by W. WORDSWORTH.
OPHELIA.—What means this, my lord?HAMLET.—Marry, this is Miching Mallecho; it means mischief.SHAKESPEARE.
[Composed at Florence, October, 1819, and forwarded to Hunt (November 2) to be published by C. & J. Ollier without the author’s name; ultimately printed by Mrs. Shelley in the second edition of the “Poetical Works”, 1839. A skit by John Hamilton Reynolds, “Peter Bell, a Lyrical Ballad”, had already appeared (April, 1819), a few days before the publication of Wordsworth’s “Peter Bell, a Tale”. These productions were reviewed in Leigh Hunt’s “Examiner” (April 26, May 3, 1819); and to the entertainment derived from his perusal of Hunt’s criticisms the composition of Shelley’s “Peter Bell the Third” is chiefly owing.]
Dear Tom,
Allow me to request you to introduce Mr. Peter Bell to the respectable family of the Fudges. Although he may fall short of those very considerable personages in the more active properties which characterize the Rat and the Apostate, I suspect that even you, their historian, will confess that he surpasses them in the more peculiarly legitimate qualification of intolerable dulness.
You know Mr. Examiner Hunt; well—it was he who presented me to two of the Mr. Bells. My intimacy with the younger Mr. Bell naturally sprung from this introduction to his brothers. And in presenting him to you, I have the satisfaction of being able to assure you that he is considerably the dullest of the three.
There is this particular advantage in an acquaintance with any one of the Peter Bells, that if you know one Peter Bell, you know three Peter Bells; they are not one, but three; not three, but one. An awful mystery, which, after having caused torrents of blood, and having been hymned by groans enough to deafen the music of the spheres, is at length illustrated to the satisfaction of all parties in the theological world, by the nature of Mr. Peter Bell.
Peter is a polyhedric Peter, or a Peter with many sides. He changes colours like a chameleon, and his coat like a snake. He is a Proteus of a Peter. He was at first sublime, pathetic, impressive, profound; then dull; then prosy and dull; and now dull—oh so very dull! it is an ultra-legitimate dulness.
You will perceive that it is not necessary to consider Hell and theDevil as supernatural machinery. The whole scene of my epic is in‘this world which is’—so Peter informed us before his conversion to“White Obi”—
‘The world of all of us, AND WHEREWE FIND OUR HAPPINESS, OR NOT AT ALL.’
Let me observe that I have spent six or seven days in composing this sublime piece; the orb of my moonlike genius has made the fourth part of its revolution round the dull earth which you inhabit, driving you mad, while it has retained its calmness and its splendour, and I have been fitting this its last phase ‘to occupy a permanent station in the literature of my country.’
Your works, indeed, dear Tom, sell better; but mine are far superior.The public is no judge; posterity sets all to rights.
Allow me to observe that so much has been written of Peter Bell, that the present history can be considered only, like the Iliad, as a continuation of that series of cyclic poems, which have already been candidates for bestowing immortality upon, at the same time that they receive it from, his character and adventures. In this point of view I have violated no rule of syntax in beginning my composition with a conjunction; the full stop which closes the poem continued by me being, like the full stops at the end of the Iliad and Odyssey, a full stop of a very qualified import.
Hoping that the immortality which you have given to the Fudges, you will receive from them; and in the firm expectation, that when London shall be an habitation of bitterns; when St. Paul’s and Westminster Abbey shall stand, shapeless and nameless ruins, in the midst of an unpeopled marsh; when the piers of Waterloo Bridge shall become the nuclei of islets of reeds and osiers, and cast the jagged shadows of their broken arches on the solitary stream, some transatlantic commentator will be weighing in the scales of some new and now unimagined system of criticism, the respective merits of the Bells and the Fudges, and their historians. I remain, dear Tom, yours sincerely,
December 1, 1819.
P.S.—Pray excuse the date of place; so soon as the profits of the publication come in, I mean to hire lodgings in a more respectable street.
Peter Bells, one, two and three,O’er the wide world wandering be.—First, the antenatal Peter,Wrapped in weeds of the same metre,The so-long-predestined raiment _5Clothed in which to walk his way meantThe second Peter; whose ambitionIs to link the proposition,As the mean of two extremes—(This was learned from Aldric’s themes) _10Shielding from the guilt of schismThe orthodoxal syllogism;The First Peter—he who wasLike the shadow in the glassOf the second, yet unripe, _15His substantial antitype.—
Then came Peter Bell the Second,Who henceforward must be reckonedThe body of a double soul,And that portion of the whole _20Without which the rest would seemEnds of a disjointed dream.—And the Third is he who hasO’er the grave been forced to passTo the other side, which is,— _25Go and try else,—just like this.
Peter Bell the First was PeterSmugger, milder, softer, neater,Like the soul before it isBorn from THAT world into THIS. _30The next Peter Bell was he,Predevote, like you and me,To good or evil as may come;His was the severer doom,—For he was an evil Cotter, _35And a polygamic Potter.And the last is Peter Bell,Damned since our first parents fell,Damned eternally to Hell—Surely he deserves it well! _40
NOTES: _10 Aldric’s] i.e. Aldrich’s—a spelling adopted here by Woodberry.
(_36 The oldest scholiasts read— A dodecagamic Potter. This is at once more descriptive and more megalophonous,—but the alliteration of the text had captivated the vulgar ear of the herd of later commentators.—[SHELLEY’S NOTE.])
1.And Peter Bell, when he had beenWith fresh-imported Hell-fire warmed,Grew serious—from his dress and mien’Twas very plainly to be seenPeter was quite reformed. _5
2.His eyes turned up, his mouth turned down;His accent caught a nasal twang;He oiled his hair; there might be heardThe grace of God in every wordWhich Peter said or sang. _10
3.But Peter now grew old, and hadAn ill no doctor could unravel:His torments almost drove him mad;—Some said it was a fever bad—Some swore it was the gravel. _15
4.His holy friends then came about,And with long preaching and persuasionConvinced the patient that, withoutThe smallest shadow of a doubt,He was predestined to damnation. _20
5.They said—‘Thy name is Peter Bell;Thy skin is of a brimstone hue;Alive or dead—ay, sick or well—The one God made to rhyme with hell;The other, I think, rhymes with you. _25
6.Then Peter set up such a yell!—The nurse, who with some water gruelWas climbing up the stairs, as wellAs her old legs could climb them—fell,And broke them both—the fall was cruel. _30
7.The Parson from the casement leptInto the lake of Windermere—And many an eel—though no adeptIn God’s right reason for it—keptGnawing his kidneys half a year. _35
8.And all the rest rushed through the doorAnd tumbled over one another,And broke their skulls.—Upon the floorMeanwhile sat Peter Bell, and swore,And cursed his father and his mother; _40
9.And raved of God, and sin, and death,Blaspheming like an infidel;And said, that with his clenched teethHe’d seize the earth from underneath,And drag it with him down to hell. _45
10.As he was speaking came a spasm,And wrenched his gnashing teeth asunder;Like one who sees a strange phantasmHe lay,—there was a silent chasmBetween his upper jaw and under. _50
11.And yellow death lay on his face;And a fixed smile that was not humanTold, as I understand the case,That he was gone to the wrong place:—I heard all this from the old woman. _55
12.Then there came down from Langdale PikeA cloud, with lightning, wind and hail;It swept over the mountains likeAn ocean,—and I heard it strikeThe woods and crags of Grasmere vale. _60
13.And I saw the black storm comeNearer, minute after minute;Its thunder made the cataracts dumb;With hiss, and clash, and hollow hum,It neared as if the Devil was in it. _65
14.The Devil WAS in it:—he had boughtPeter for half-a-crown; and whenThe storm which bore him vanished, noughtThat in the house that storm had caughtWas ever seen again. _70
15.The gaping neighbours came next day—They found all vanished from the shore:The Bible, whence he used to pray,Half scorched under a hen-coop lay;Smashed glass—and nothing more! _75
1.The Devil, I safely can aver,Has neither hoof, nor tail, nor sting;Nor is he, as some sages swear,A spirit, neither here nor there,In nothing—yet in everything. _80
2.He is—what we are; for sometimesThe Devil is a gentleman;At others a bard bartering rhymesFor sack; a statesman spinning crimes;A swindler, living as he can; _85
3.A thief, who cometh in the night,With whole boots and net pantaloons,Like some one whom it were not rightTo mention;—or the luckless wightFrom whom he steals nine silver spoons. _90
4.But in this case he did appearLike a slop-merchant from Wapping,And with smug face, and eye severe,On every side did perk and peerTill he saw Peter dead or napping. _95
5.He had on an upper Benjamin(For he was of the driving schism)In the which he wrapped his skinFrom the storm he travelled in,For fear of rheumatism. _100
6.He called the ghost out of the corse;—It was exceedingly like Peter,—Only its voice was hollow and hoarse—It had a queerish look of course—Its dress too was a little neater. _105
7.The Devil knew not his name and lot;Peter knew not that he was Bell:Each had an upper stream of thought,Which made all seem as it was not;Fitting itself to all things well. _110
8.Peter thought he had parents dear,Brothers, sisters, cousins, cronies,In the fens of Lincolnshire;He perhaps had found them thereHad he gone and boldly shown his _115
9.Solemn phiz in his own village;Where he thought oft when a boyHe’d clomb the orchard walls to pillageThe produce of his neighbour’s tillage,With marvellous pride and joy. _120
10.And the Devil thought he had,‘Mid the misery and confusionOf an unjust war, just madeA fortune by the gainful tradeOf giving soldiers rations bad— _125The world is full of strange delusion—
11.That he had a mansion plannedIn a square like Grosvenor Square,That he was aping fashion, andThat he now came to Westmoreland _130To see what was romantic there.
12.And all this, though quite ideal,—Ready at a breath to vanish,—Was a state not more unrealThan the peace he could not feel, _135Or the care he could not banish.
13.After a little conversation,The Devil told Peter, if he chose,He’d bring him to the world of fashionBy giving him a situation _140In his own service—and new clothes.
14.And Peter bowed, quite pleased and proud,And after waiting some few daysFor a new livery—dirty yellowTurned up with black—the wretched fellow _145Was bowled to Hell in the Devil’s chaise.
1.Hell is a city much like London—A populous and a smoky city;There are all sorts of people undone,And there is little or no fun done; _150Small justice shown, and still less pity.
2.There is a Castles, and a Canning,A Cobbett, and a Castlereagh;All sorts of caitiff corpses planningAll sorts of cozening for trepanning _155Corpses less corrupt than they.
3.There is a ***, who has lostHis wits, or sold them, none knows which;He walks about a double ghost,And though as thin as Fraud almost— _160Ever grows more grim and rich.
4.There is a Chancery Court; a King;A manufacturing mob; a setOf thieves who by themselves are sentSimilar thieves to represent; _165An army; and a public debt.
5.Which last is a scheme of paper money,And means—being interpreted—‘Bees, keep your wax—give us the honey,And we will plant, while skies are sunny, _170Flowers, which in winter serve instead.’
6.There is a great talk of revolution—And a great chance of despotism—German soldiers—camps—confusion—Tumults—lotteries—rage—delusion— _175Gin—suicide—and methodism;
7.Taxes too, on wine and bread,And meat, and beer, and tea, and cheese,From which those patriots pure are fed,Who gorge before they reel to bed _180The tenfold essence of all these.
8.There are mincing women, mewing,(Like cats, who amant misere,)Of their own virtue, and pursuingTheir gentler sisters to that ruin, _185Without which—what were chastity?(2)
9.Lawyers—judges—old hobnobbersAre there—bailiffs—chancellors—Bishops—great and little robbers—Rhymesters—pamphleteers—stock-jobbers— _190Men of glory in the wars,—
10.Things whose trade is, over ladiesTo lean, and flirt, and stare, and simper,Till all that is divine in womanGrows cruel, courteous, smooth, inhuman, _195Crucified ’twixt a smile and whimper.
11.Thrusting, toiling, wailing, moiling,Frowning, preaching—such a riot!Each with never-ceasing labour,Whilst he thinks he cheats his neighbour, _200Cheating his own heart of quiet.
12.And all these meet at levees;—Dinners convivial and political;—Suppers of epic poets;—teas,Where small talk dies in agonies;— _205Breakfasts professional and critical;
13.Lunches and snacks so aldermanicThat one would furnish forth ten dinners,Where reigns a Cretan-tongued panic,Lest news Russ, Dutch, or Alemannic _210Should make some losers, and some winners—
45.At conversazioni—balls—Conventicles—and drawing-rooms—Courts of law—committees—callsOf a morning—clubs—book-stalls— _215Churches—masquerades—and tombs.
15.And this is Hell—and in this smotherAll are damnable and damned;Each one damning, damns the other;They are damned by one another, _220By none other are they damned.
16.’Tis a lie to say, ‘God damns’! (1)Where was Heaven’s Attorney GeneralWhen they first gave out such flams?Let there be an end of shams, _225They are mines of poisonous mineral.
17.Statesmen damn themselves to beCursed; and lawyers damn their soulsTo the auction of a fee;Churchmen damn themselves to see _230God’s sweet love in burning coals.
18.The rich are damned, beyond all cure,To taunt, and starve, and trample onThe weak and wretched; and the poorDamn their broken hearts to endure _235Stripe on stripe, with groan on groan.
19.Sometimes the poor are damned indeedTo take,—not means for being blessed,—But Cobbett’s snuff, revenge; that weedFrom which the worms that it doth feed _240Squeeze less than they before possessed.
20.And some few, like we know who,Damned—but God alone knows why—To believe their minds are givenTo make this ugly Hell a Heaven; _245In which faith they live and die.
21.Thus, as in a town, plague-stricken,Each man be he sound or noMust indifferently sicken;As when day begins to thicken, _250None knows a pigeon from a crow,—
22.So good and bad, sane and mad,The oppressor and the oppressed;Those who weep to see what othersSmile to inflict upon their brothers; _255Lovers, haters, worst and best;
23.All are damned—they breathe an air,Thick, infected, joy-dispelling:Each pursues what seems most fair,Mining like moles, through mind, and there _260Scoop palace-caverns vast, where CareIn throned state is ever dwelling.
1.Lo. Peter in Hell’s Grosvenor Square,A footman in the Devil’s service!And the misjudging world would swear _265That every man in service thereTo virtue would prefer vice.
2.But Peter, though now damned, was notWhat Peter was before damnation.Men oftentimes prepare a lot _270Which ere it finds them, is not whatSuits with their genuine station.
3.All things that Peter saw and feltHad a peculiar aspect to him;And when they came within the belt _275Of his own nature, seemed to melt,Like cloud to cloud, into him.
4.And so the outward world unitingTo that within him, he becameConsiderably uninviting _280To those who, meditation slighting,Were moulded in a different frame.
5.And he scorned them, and they scorned him;And he scorned all they did; and theyDid all that men of their own trim _285Are wont to do to please their whim,Drinking, lying, swearing, play.
6.Such were his fellow-servants; thusHis virtue, like our own, was builtToo much on that indignant fuss _290Hypocrite Pride stirs up in usTo bully one another’s guilt.
7.He had a mind which was somehowAt once circumference and centreOf all he might or feel or know; _295Nothing went ever out, althoughSomething did ever enter.
8.He had as much imaginationAs a pint-pot;—he never couldFancy another situation, _300From which to dart his contemplation,Than that wherein he stood.
9.Yet his was individual mind,And new created all he sawIn a new manner, and refined _305Those new creations, and combinedThem, by a master-spirit’s law.
10.Thus—though unimaginative—An apprehension clear, intense,Of his mind’s work, had made alive _310The things it wrought on; I believeWakening a sort of thought in sense.
11.But from the first ’twas Peter’s driftTo be a kind of moral eunuch,He touched the hem of Nature’s shift, _315Felt faint—and never dared upliftThe closest, all-concealing tunic.
12.She laughed the while, with an arch smile,And kissed him with a sister’s kiss,And said—My best Diogenes, _320I love you well—but, if you please,Tempt not again my deepest bliss.
13.‘’Tis you are cold—for I, not coy,Yield love for love, frank, warm, and true;And Burns, a Scottish peasant boy— _325His errors prove it—knew my joyMore, learned friend, than you.
14.‘Boeca bacciata non perde ventura,Anzi rinnuova come fa la luna:—So thought Boccaccio, whose sweet words might cure a _330Male prude, like you, from what you now endure, aLow-tide in soul, like a stagnant laguna.
15.Then Peter rubbed his eyes severe.And smoothed his spacious forehead downWith his broad palm;—’twixt love and fear, _335He looked, as he no doubt felt, queer,And in his dream sate down.
16.The Devil was no uncommon creature;A leaden-witted thief—just huddledOut of the dross and scum of nature; _340A toad-like lump of limb and feature,With mind, and heart, and fancy muddled.
17.He was that heavy, dull, cold thing,The spirit of evil well may be:A drone too base to have a sting; _345Who gluts, and grimes his lazy wing,And calls lust, luxury.
18.Now he was quite the kind of wightRound whom collect, at a fixed aera,Venison, turtle, hock, and claret,— _350Good cheer—and those who come to share it—And best East Indian madeira!
19.It was his fancy to inviteMen of science, wit, and learning,Who came to lend each other light; _355He proudly thought that his gold’s mightHad set those spirits burning.
20.And men of learning, science, wit,Considered him as you and IThink of some rotten tree, and sit _360Lounging and dining under it,Exposed to the wide sky.
21.And all the while with loose fat smile,The willing wretch sat winking there,Believing ’twas his power that made _365That jovial scene—and that all paidHomage to his unnoticed chair.
22.Though to be sure this place was Hell;He was the Devil—and all they—What though the claret circled well, _370And wit, like ocean, rose and fell?—Were damned eternally.
1.Among the guests who often stayedTill the Devil’s petits-soupers,A man there came, fair as a maid, _375And Peter noted what he said,Standing behind his master’s chair.
2.He was a mighty poet—andA subtle-souled psychologist;All things he seemed to understand, _380Of old or new—of sea or land—But his own mind—which was a mist.
3.This was a man who might have turnedHell into Heaven—and so in gladnessA Heaven unto himself have earned; _385But he in shadows undiscernedTrusted.—and damned himself to madness.
4.He spoke of poetry, and how‘Divine it was—a light—a love—A spirit which like wind doth blow _390As it listeth, to and fro;A dew rained down from God above;
5.‘A power which comes and goes like dream,And which none can ever trace—Heaven’s light on earth—Truth’s brightest beam.’ _395And when he ceased there lay the gleamOf those words upon his face.
6.Now Peter, when he heard such talk,Would, heedless of a broken pate,Stand like a man asleep, or balk _400Some wishing guest of knife or fork,Or drop and break his master’s plate.
7.At night he oft would start and wakeLike a lover, and beganIn a wild measure songs to make _405On moor, and glen, and rocky lake,And on the heart of man—
8.And on the universal sky—And the wide earth’s bosom green,—And the sweet, strange mystery _410Of what beyond these things may lie,And yet remain unseen.
9.For in his thought he visitedThe spots in which, ere dead and damned,He his wayward life had led; _415Yet knew not whence the thoughts were fedWhich thus his fancy crammed.
10.And these obscure remembrancesStirred such harmony in Peter,That, whensoever he should please, _420He could speak of rocks and treesIn poetic metre.
11.For though it was without a senseOf memory, yet he remembered wellMany a ditch and quick-set fence; _425Of lakes he had intelligence,He knew something of heath and fell.
12.He had also dim recollectionsOf pedlars tramping on their rounds;Milk-pans and pails; and odd collections _430Of saws, and proverbs; and reflectionsOld parsons make in burying-grounds.
13.But Peter’s verse was clear, and cameAnnouncing from the frozen hearthOf a cold age, that none might tame _435The soul of that diviner flameIt augured to the Earth:
14.Like gentle rains, on the dry plains,Making that green which late was gray,Or like the sudden moon, that stains _440Some gloomy chamber’s window-panesWith a broad light like day.
15.For language was in Peter’s handLike clay while he was yet a potter;And he made songs for all the land, _445Sweet both to feel and understand,As pipkins late to mountain Cotter.
16.And Mr. —, the bookseller,Gave twenty pounds for some;—then scorningA footman’s yellow coat to wear, _450Peter, too proud of heart, I fear,Instantly gave the Devil warning.
17.Whereat the Devil took offence,And swore in his soul a great oath then,‘That for his damned impertinence _455He’d bring him to a proper senseOf what was due to gentlemen!’
1.‘O that mine enemy had writtenA book!’—cried Job:—a fearful curse,If to the Arab, as the Briton, _460’Twas galling to be critic-bitten:—The Devil to Peter wished no worse.
2.When Peter’s next new book found vent,The Devil to all the first ReviewsA copy of it slyly sent, _465With five-pound note as compliment,And this short notice—‘Pray abuse.’
3.Then seriatim, month and quarter,Appeared such mad tirades.—One said—‘Peter seduced Mrs. Foy’s daughter, _470Then drowned the mother in Ullswater,The last thing as he went to bed.’
4.Another—‘Let him shave his head!Where’s Dr. Willis?—Or is he joking?What does the rascal mean or hope, _475No longer imitating Pope,In that barbarian Shakespeare poking?’
5.One more, ‘Is incest not enough?And must there be adultery too?Grace after meat? Miscreant and Liar! _480Thief! Blackguard! Scoundrel! Fool! hell-fireIs twenty times too good for you.
6.‘By that last book of yours WE thinkYou’ve double damned yourself to scorn;We warned you whilst yet on the brink _485You stood. From your black name will shrinkThe babe that is unborn.’
7.All these Reviews the Devil madeUp in a parcel, which he hadSafely to Peter’s house conveyed. _490For carriage, tenpence Peter paid—Untied them—read them—went half mad.
8.‘What!’ cried he, ‘this is my rewardFor nights of thought, and days, of toil?Do poets, but to be abhorred _495By men of whom they never heard,Consume their spirits’ oil?
9.‘What have I done to them?—and whoIS Mrs. Foy? ’Tis very cruelTo speak of me and Betty so! _500Adultery! God defend me! Oh!I’ve half a mind to fight a duel.
10.‘Or,’ cried he, a grave look collecting,‘Is it my genius, like the moon,Sets those who stand her face inspecting, _505That face within their brain reflecting,Like a crazed bell-chime, out of tune?’
11.For Peter did not know the town,But thought, as country readers do,For half a guinea or a crown, _510He bought oblivion or renownFrom God’s own voice (1) in a review.
12.All Peter did on this occasionWas, writing some sad stuff in prose.It is a dangerous invasion _515When poets criticize; their stationIs to delight, not pose.
13.The Devil then sent to Leipsic fairFor Born’s translation of Kant’s book;A world of words, tail foremost, where _520Right—wrong—false—true—and foul—and fairAs in a lottery-wheel are shook.
14.Five thousand crammed octavo pagesOf German psychologics,—heWho his furor verborum assuages _525Thereon, deserves just seven months’ wagesMore than will e’er be due to me.
15.I looked on them nine several days,And then I saw that they were bad;A friend, too, spoke in their dispraise,— _530He never read them;—with amazeI found Sir William Drummond had.
16.When the book came, the Devil sentIt to P. Verbovale (2), Esquire,With a brief note of compliment, _535By that night’s Carlisle mail. It went,And set his soul on fire.
17.Fire, which ex luce praebens fumum,Made him beyond the bottom seeOf truth’s clear well—when I and you, Ma’am, _540Go, as we shall do, subter humum,We may know more than he.
18.Now Peter ran to seed in soulInto a walking paradox;For he was neither part nor whole, _545Nor good, nor bad—nor knave nor fool;—Among the woods and rocks
19.Furious he rode, where late he ran,Lashing and spurring his tame hobby;Turned to a formal puritan, _550A solemn and unsexual man,—He half believed “White Obi”.
20.This steed in vision he would ride,High trotting over nine-inch bridges,With Flibbertigibbet, imp of pride, _555Mocking and mowing by his side—A mad-brained goblin for a guide—Over corn-fields, gates, and hedges.
21.After these ghastly rides, he cameHome to his heart, and found from thence _560Much stolen of its accustomed flame;His thoughts grew weak, drowsy, and lameOf their intelligence.
22.To Peter’s view, all seemed one hue;He was no Whig, he was no Tory; _565No Deist and no Christian he;—He got so subtle, that to beNothing, was all his glory.
23.One single point in his beliefFrom his organization sprung, _570The heart-enrooted faith, the chiefEar in his doctrines’ blighted sheaf,That ‘Happiness is wrong’;
24.So thought Calvin and Dominic;So think their fierce successors, who _575Even now would neither stint nor stickOur flesh from off our bones to pick,If they might ‘do their do.’
25.His morals thus were undermined:—The old Peter—the hard, old Potter— _580Was born anew within his mind;He grew dull, harsh, sly, unrefined,As when he tramped beside the Otter. (1)
26.In the death hues of agonyLambently flashing from a fish, _585Now Peter felt amused to seeShades like a rainbow’s rise and flee,Mixed with a certain hungry wish(2).
27.So in his Country’s dying faceHe looked—and, lovely as she lay, _590Seeking in vain his last embrace,Wailing her own abandoned case,With hardened sneer he turned away:
28.And coolly to his own soul said;—‘Do you not think that we might make _595A poem on her when she’s dead:—Or, no—a thought is in my head—Her shroud for a new sheet I’ll take:
29.‘My wife wants one.—Let who will buryThis mangled corpse! And I and you, _600My dearest Soul, will then make merry,As the Prince Regent did with Sherry,—’‘Ay—and at last desert me too.’
30.And so his Soul would not be gay,But moaned within him; like a fawn _605Moaning within a cave, it layWounded and wasting, day by day,Till all its life of life was gone.
31.As troubled skies stain waters clear,The storm in Peter’s heart and mind _610Now made his verses dark and queer:They were the ghosts of what they were,Shaking dim grave-clothes in the wind.
32.For he now raved enormous folly,Of Baptisms, Sunday-schools, and Graves, _615’Twould make George Colman melancholyTo have heard him, like a male Molly,Chanting those stupid staves.
33.Yet the Reviews, who heaped abuseOn Peter while he wrote for freedom, _620So soon as in his song they spyThe folly which soothes tyranny,Praise him, for those who feed ’em.
34.‘He was a man, too great to scan;—A planet lost in truth’s keen rays:— _625His virtue, awful and prodigious;—He was the most sublime, religious,Pure-minded Poet of these days.’
35.As soon as he read that, cried Peter,‘Eureka! I have found the way _630To make a better thing of metreThan e’er was made by living creatureUp to this blessed day.’
36.Then Peter wrote odes to the Devil;—In one of which he meekly said: _635‘May Carnage and Slaughter,Thy niece and thy daughter,May Rapine and Famine,Thy gorge ever cramming,Glut thee with living and dead! _640
37.‘May Death and Damnation,And Consternation,Flit up from Hell with pure intent!Slash them at Manchester,Glasgow, Leeds, and Chester; _645Drench all with blood from Avon to Trent.
38.‘Let thy body-guard yeomenHew down babes and women,And laugh with bold triumph till Heaven be rent!When Moloch in Jewry _650Munched children with fury,It was thou, Devil, dining with pure intent. (1)
1.The Devil now knew his proper cue.—Soon as he read the ode, he droveTo his friend Lord MacMurderchouse’s, _655A man of interest in both houses,And said:—‘For money or for love,
2.‘Pray find some cure or sinecure;To feed from the superfluous taxesA friend of ours—a poet—fewer _660Have fluttered tamer to the lureThan he.’ His lordship stands and racks his
3.Stupid brains, while one might countAs many beads as he had boroughs,—At length replies; from his mean front, _665Like one who rubs out an account,Smoothing away the unmeaning furrows:
4.‘It happens fortunately, dear Sir,I can. I hope I need requireNo pledge from you, that he will stir _670In our affairs;—like Oliver.That he’ll be worthy of his hire.’
5.These words exchanged, the news sent offTo Peter, home the Devil hied,—Took to his bed; he had no cough, _675No doctor,—meat and drink enough.—Yet that same night he died.
6.The Devil’s corpse was leaded down;His decent heirs enjoyed his pelf,Mourning-coaches, many a one, _680Followed his hearse along the town:—Where was the Devil himself?
7.When Peter heard of his promotion,His eyes grew like two stars for bliss:There was a bow of sleek devotion _685Engendering in his back; each motionSeemed a Lord’s shoe to kiss.
8.He hired a house, bought plate, and madeA genteel drive up to his door,With sifted gravel neatly laid,— _690As if defying all who said,Peter was ever poor.
9.But a disease soon struck intoThe very life and soul of Peter—He walked about—slept—had the hue _695Of health upon his cheeks—and fewDug better—none a heartier eater.
10.And yet a strange and horrid curseClung upon Peter, night and day;Month after month the thing grew worse, _700And deadlier than in this my verseI can find strength to say.
11.Peter was dull—he was at firstDull—oh, so dull—so very dull!Whether he talked, wrote, or rehearsed— _705Still with this dulness was he cursed—Dull—beyond all conception—dull.
12.No one could read his books—no mortal,But a few natural friends, would hear him;The parson came not near his portal; _710His state was like that of the immortalDescribed by Swift—no man could bear him.
13.His sister, wife, and children yawned,With a long, slow, and drear ennui,All human patience far beyond; _715Their hopes of Heaven each would have pawned,Anywhere else to be.
14.But in his verse, and in his prose,The essence of his dulness wasConcentred and compressed so close, _720’Twould have made Guatimozin dozeOn his red gridiron of brass.
15.A printer’s boy, folding those pages,Fell slumbrously upon one side;Like those famed Seven who slept three ages. _725To wakeful frenzy’s vigil—rages,As opiates, were the same applied.
16.Even the Reviewers who were hiredTo do the work of his reviewing,With adamantine nerves, grew tired;— _730Gaping and torpid they retired,To dream of what they should be doing.
17.And worse and worse, the drowsy curseYawned in him, till it grew a pest—A wide contagious atmosphere, _735Creeping like cold through all things near;A power to infect and to infest.
18.His servant-maids and dogs grew dull;His kitten, late a sportive elf;The woods and lakes, so beautiful, _740Of dim stupidity were full.All grew dull as Peter’s self.
19.The earth under his feet—the springs,Which lived within it a quick life,The air, the winds of many wings, _745That fan it with new murmurings,Were dead to their harmonious strife.
20.The birds and beasts within the wood,The insects, and each creeping thing,Were now a silent multitude; _750Love’s work was left unwrought—no broodNear Peter’s house took wing.
21.And every neighbouring cottagerStupidly yawned upon the other:No jackass brayed; no little cur _755Cocked up his ears;—no man would stirTo save a dying mother.
22.Yet all from that charmed district wentBut some half-idiot and half-knave,Who rather than pay any rent, _760Would live with marvellous content,Over his father’s grave.
23.No bailiff dared within that space,For fear of the dull charm, to enter;A man would bear upon his face, _765For fifteen months in any case,The yawn of such a venture.
24.Seven miles above—below—around—This pest of dulness holds its sway;A ghastly life without a sound; _770To Peter’s soul the spell is bound—How should it ever pass away?
NOTES: (_8 To those who have not duly appreciated the distinction between Whale and Russia oil, this attribute might rather seem to belong to the Dandy than the Evangelic. The effect, when to the windward, is indeed so similar, that it requires a subtle naturalist to discriminate the animals. They belong, however, to distinct genera.—[SHELLEY’s NOTE.)
(_183 One of the attributes in Linnaeus’s description of the Cat. To a similar cause the caterwauling of more than one species of this genus is to be referred;—except, indeed, that the poor quadruped is compelled to quarrel with its own pleasures, whilst the biped is supposed only to quarrel with those of others.—[SHELLEY’S NOTE.])
(_186 What would this husk and excuse for a virtue be without its kernel prostitution, or the kernel prostitution without this husk of a virtue? I wonder the women of the town do not form an association, like the Society for the Suppression of Vice, for the support of what may be called the ‘King, Church, and Constitution’ of their order. But this subject is almost too horrible for a joke.—[SHELLEY’S NOTE.])
(_222 This libel on our national oath, and this accusation of all our countrymen of being in the daily practice of solemnly asseverating the most enormous falsehood, I fear deserves the notice of a more active Attorney General than that here alluded to.—[SHELLEY’S NOTE.])
_292 one Fleay cj., Rossetti, Forman, Dowden, Woodberry;out 1839, 2nd edition._500 Betty]Emma 1839, 2nd edition. See letter from Shelley to Ollier,May 14, 1820 (Shelley Memorials, page 139).
(_512 Vox populi, vox dei. As Mr. Godwin truly observes of a more famous saying, of some merit as a popular maxim, but totally destitute of philosophical accuracy.—[SHELLEY’S NOTE.])
(_534 Quasi, Qui valet verba:—i.e. all the words which have been, are, or may be expended by, for, against, with, or on him. A sufficient proof of the utility of this history. Peter’s progenitor who selected this name seems to have possessed A PURE ANTICIPATED COGNITION of the nature and modesty of this ornament of his posterity.—[SHELLEY’S NOTE.])
_602-3 See Editor’s Note.
(_583 A famous river in the new Atlantis of the Dynastophylic Pantisocratists.—[SHELLEY’S NOTE.])
(_588 See the description of the beautiful colours produced during the agonizing death of a number of trout, in the fourth part of a long poem in blank verse, published within a few years. [“The Excursion”, 8 2 568-71.—Ed.] That poem contains curious evidence of the gradual hardening of a strong but circumscribed sensibility, of the perversion of a penetrating but panic-stricken understanding. The author might have derived a lesson which he had probably forgotten from these sweet and sublime verses:—
‘This lesson, Shepherd, let us two divide,Taught both by what she (Nature) shows and what conceals,Never to blend our pleasure or our prideWith sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.’—[SHELLEY’S NOTE.])
(_652 It is curious to observe how often extremes meet. Cobbett and Peter use the same language for a different purpose: Peter is indeed a sort of metrical Cobbett. Cobbett is, however, more mischievous than Peter, because he pollutes a holy and how unconquerable cause with the principles of legitimate murder; whilst the other only makes a bad one ridiculous and odious.
If either Peter or Cobbett should see this note, each will feel more indignation at being compared to the other than at any censure implied in the moral perversion laid to their charge.—[SHELLEY’S NOTE.])
In this new edition I have added “Peter Bell the Third”. A critique on Wordsworth’s “Peter Bell” reached us at Leghorn, which amused Shelley exceedingly, and suggested this poem.
I need scarcely observe that nothing personal to the author of “Peter Bell” is intended in this poem. No man ever admired Wordsworth’s poetry more;—he read it perpetually, and taught others to appreciate its beauties. This poem is, like all others written by Shelley, ideal. He conceived the idealism of a poet—a man of lofty and creative genius—quitting the glorious calling of discovering and announcing the beautiful and good, to support and propagate ignorant prejudices and pernicious errors; imparting to the unenlightened, not that ardour for truth and spirit of toleration which Shelley looked on as the sources of the moral improvement and happiness of mankind, but false and injurious opinions, that evil was good, and that ignorance and force were the best allies of purity and virtue. His idea was that a man gifted, even as transcendently as the author of “Peter Bell”, with the highest qualities of genius, must, if he fostered such errors, be infected with dulness. This poem was written as a warning—not as a narration of the reality. He was unacquainted personally with Wordsworth, or with Coleridge (to whom he alludes in the fifth part of the poem), and therefore, I repeat, his poem is purely ideal;—it contains something of criticism on the compositions of those great poets, but nothing injurious to the men themselves.
No poem contains more of Shelley’s peculiar views with regard to the errors into which many of the wisest have fallen, and the pernicious effects of certain opinions on society. Much of it is beautifully written: and, though, like the burlesque drama of “Swellfoot”, it must be looked on as a plaything, it has so much merit and poetry—so much of HIMSELF in it—that it cannot fail to interest greatly, and by right belongs to the world for whose instruction and benefit it was written.
***
[Composed during Shelley’s occupation of the Gisbornes’ house at Leghorn, July, 1820; published in “Posthumous Poems”, 1824. Sources of the text are (1) a draft in Shelley’s hand, ‘partly illegible’ (Forman), amongst the Boscombe manuscripts; (2) a transcript by Mrs. Shelley; (3) the editio princeps, 1824; the text in “Poetical Works”, 1839, let and 2nd editions. Our text is that of Mrs. Shelley’s transcript, modified by the Boscombe manuscript. Here, as elsewhere in this edition, the readings of the editio princeps are preserved in the footnotes.]
LEGHORN, July 1, 1820.]
The spider spreads her webs, whether she beIn poet’s tower, cellar, or barn, or tree;The silk-worm in the dark green mulberry leavesHis winding sheet and cradle ever weaves;So I, a thing whom moralists call worm, _5Sit spinning still round this decaying form,From the fine threads of rare and subtle thought—No net of words in garish colours wroughtTo catch the idle buzzers of the day—But a soft cell, where when that fades away, _10Memory may clothe in wings my living nameAnd feed it with the asphodels of fame,Which in those hearts which must remember meGrow, making love an immortality.
Whoever should behold me now, I wist, _15Would think I were a mighty mechanist,Bent with sublime Archimedean artTo breathe a soul into the iron heartOf some machine portentous, or strange gin,Which by the force of figured spells might win _20Its way over the sea, and sport therein;For round the walls are hung dread engines, suchAs Vulcan never wrought for Jove to clutchIxion or the Titan:—or the quickWit of that man of God, St. Dominic, _25To convince Atheist, Turk, or Heretic,Or those in philanthropic council met,Who thought to pay some interest for the debtThey owed to Jesus Christ for their salvation,By giving a faint foretaste of damnation _30To Shakespeare, Sidney, Spenser, and the restWho made our land an island of the blest,When lamp-like Spain, who now relumes her fireOn Freedom’s hearth, grew dim with Empire:—With thumbscrews, wheels, with tooth and spike and jag, _35Which fishers found under the utmost cragOf Cornwall and the storm-encompassed isles,Where to the sky the rude sea rarely smilesUnless in treacherous wrath, as on the mornWhen the exulting elements in scorn, _40Satiated with destroyed destruction, laySleeping in beauty on their mangled prey,As panthers sleep;—and other strange and dreadMagical forms the brick floor overspread,—Proteus transformed to metal did not make _45More figures, or more strange; nor did he takeSuch shapes of unintelligible brass,Or heap himself in such a horrid massOf tin and iron not to be understood;And forms of unimaginable wood, _50To puzzle Tubal Cain and all his brood:Great screws, and cones, and wheels, and grooved blocks,The elements of what will stand the shocksOf wave and wind and time.—Upon the tableMore knacks and quips there be than I am able _55To catalogize in this verse of mine:—A pretty bowl of wood—not full of wine,But quicksilver; that dew which the gnomes drinkWhen at their subterranean toil they swink,Pledging the demons of the earthquake, who _60Reply to them in lava—cry halloo!And call out to the cities o’er their head,—Roofs, towers, and shrines, the dying and the dead,Crash through the chinks of earth—and then all quaffAnother rouse, and hold their sides and laugh. _65This quicksilver no gnome has drunk—withinThe walnut bowl it lies, veined and thin,In colour like the wake of light that stainsThe Tuscan deep, when from the moist moon rainsThe inmost shower of its white fire—the breeze _70Is still—blue Heaven smiles over the pale seas.And in this bowl of quicksilver—for IYield to the impulse of an infancyOutlasting manhood—I have made to floatA rude idealism of a paper boat:— _75A hollow screw with cogs—Henry will knowThe thing I mean and laugh at me,—if soHe fears not I should do more mischief.—NextLie bills and calculations much perplexed,With steam-boats, frigates, and machinery quaint _80Traced over them in blue and yellow paint.Then comes a range of mathematicalInstruments, for plans nautical and statical,A heap of rosin, a queer broken glassWith ink in it;—a china cup that was _85What it will never be again, I think,—A thing from which sweet lips were wont to drinkThe liquor doctors rail at—and which IWill quaff in spite of them—and when we dieWe’ll toss up who died first of drinking tea, _90And cry out,—‘Heads or tails?’ where’er we be.Near that a dusty paint-box, some odd hooks,A half-burnt match, an ivory block, three books,Where conic sections, spherics, logarithms,To great Laplace, from Saunderson and Sims, _95Lie heaped in their harmonious disarrayOf figures,—disentangle them who may.Baron de Tott’s Memoirs beside them lie,And some odd volumes of old chemistry.Near those a most inexplicable thing, _100With lead in the middle—I’m conjecturingHow to make Henry understand; but no—I’ll leave, as Spenser says, with many mo,This secret in the pregnant womb of time,Too vast a matter for so weak a rhyme. _105